


(Just like a ghost) You've been haunting my dreams

by Miele_Petite



Series: Over oceans unknown (You are always with me) [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Fanart, Fluff, Good Omens Halloween Gift Exchange, Halloween, M/M, Pumpkin carving, a tiny bit of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-08 02:28:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21228278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miele_Petite/pseuds/Miele_Petite
Summary: Now they aren’t watching over Warlock, Crowley is happy to be done with American style Halloween festivities, but Aziraphale has other ideas. Includes Illustration :)





	(Just like a ghost) You've been haunting my dreams

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cabin13cosplayer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cabin13cosplayer/gifts).

Don’t grieve. Anything you lose comes round in another form.-Rumi

Samhain, West Ireland, 7th century

Aziraphale ducks the low beam of the door and staggers into the dark of the gathering night. His heart is pounding and he has the urge to run as if being pursued by the devil, but what's stalking him is inescapable. All the same, though he tries to stay calm, his steps are rather quicker in leaving than when he’d arrived. He welcomes the shock of the cold- biting chill in stark contrast of the cozy fire and cheer of the evening’s festivities. At least if he is seen, he reasons, his trembling could be attributed to the frost, and not be taken for what it was, a terror of seeing his heart laid bare so unexpectedly. The quiet velvet dark of the sky and the reassuring majesty of the stars should soothe him, but right now they do nothing to still his racing pulse. If anything, exposure to the heavens is worsening the churn in his stomach. He blows into his hands to warm them as he hurries away, and tries to conjure as many reasons as he can to dismiss the auspice. It is silly, really- no one besides himself would have known the meaning, and it's a parlour trick at any rate, and it's just a coincidence, and it isn’t true, and… _Oh_, but it_ is_ true, he sighs to himself, his shoulders rounding in defeat. But he's managed for centuries to confine these thoughts to occasional hours before dawn, alone and unobserved, and now they are tumbling out and he's powerless to stop it. They were under control, he wails at himself, _he was in control_. He stops and takes a deep breath, the frigid air stabbing his lungs. This unexpected perturbation will pass, he tells himself. Still, he feels tears burgeoning in his eyes, stinging in the fierce wind that howls now, and he dabs at them hastily with a sleeve, but they stubbornly return. What business did he even have mixing with humans celebrating the coming darkness? It isn't the season for his kind. He wants to curse himself for coming back here, but that isn’t in his purview as an angel either, so he swallows that bitter notion, and head down, hurries unnoticed to his rooms.

October, Mayfair, Current day

Crowley had endured a litany of indignities over the course the past five years. The pain of stockings and high-heels aside, much of them stemmed from the fact that Warlock, whom they'd been influencing in an attempt to side-step the apocalypse, had also spent a lot of time under the influence of his parent’s American culture. Or lack thereof, as Aziraphale might have suggested- and Crowley might well have glared at him for having gotten off lightly, as the gardener. Unlike Brother Francis, as Warlock's nanny, he had actually been dragged along with the boy to that godforsaken land, on trips to visit family. Ugh. He’d missed his Bentley _so damned much_. He had put up with it all though, because they thought Warlock was the anti-Christ, of course, and they'd thought they were carrying out the very important mission of averting the end of everything. It would all have been worth it. It had turned out though, Warlock was just a bit of a brat, which may or may not have had anything to do with the confusion of having been taught alternate worldviews by an angel and a demon in turn. 

One of the aspects of American culture they’d been forced, as Nanny Ashtoreth and Brother Francis, to suffer through for the past five autumns was American-style Halloween celebrations, usually attended by throngs of wound-up hyperglycemic children. The trick-or-treating, costume parties, and pumpkin carving were an annual event, and the two of them were unfortunately along for the ride. But after this past summer’s near Apocalypse, and surviving Aziraphale’s execution (and of course, the angel surviving what would have been his), Crowley is currently enjoying an October with no such nonsense. Which is why the demon is extremely surprised when Aziraphale shows up at the door of his flat with a stack of the Times under one arm, and one of those stupid orange squashes under the other.

“What on earth is that for?” he asks, as the angel pushes past him and heads for his kitchen.

“It’s nearly Halloween, dear,” Aziraphale says cheerfully, “it’s for carving, of course.”

He sets the papers and the pumpkin on the gleaming back granite surface of the countertop and turns to Crowley, who wears an expression that is a cross between incredulity and smelling something spoiled.

"Urgggh, what are you _on about_," the demon groans, "Angel, we're not watching Warlock anymore, we don't have to ruin Samhain like Americans this year. Pumpkins, ugh. Next thing you know you’ll be eating them. They put them in everything over there… They put them _in their coffee_!” He shudders with the horror of the thought.

"Oh hush, dear," Aziraphale says, dismissing his attitude with with a cherubic smile and a jaunty wiggle, "I know you loved doing all of this with Warlock. It was your favourite part, all that spooky stuff."

"It wasn't spooky, it was ridiculous."

"It was fun, you old killjoy," the angel says, perilously close to his pouting tone, "I thought it might be nice for us to do this together, and you could tell those ghost stories like you used to. You know, get into the spirit of things."

"Ghost stories? Angel, you can't handle my scary stories."

Aziraphale scoffs. "Whatever. I am an angel, you can't scare me."

"You got scared at _Phantom of the Opera_," Crowley snickers.

"I did not!" the angel huffs, red rising in his cheeks now, "I was just pretending- to encourage the actors."

"Sure, angel." the demon grins. "You held my hand so tight, I thought you were going to snap my fingers off."

Aziraphale gestures, as if to parry the jab, and then decides to counter. "It was just the tension in the story, and anyway, I was only holding your hand to comfort you in case you started crying again."

"I wasn't crying!" Crowley snaps, "I told you a million times already, it was someone's perfume in there. Far too strong, it was burning my eyes."

He looks away and crosses his arms, regretting having brought it up now. The end of the production had, admittedly, left him a wreck (and trying to cover up his choking up with coughing), but Aziraphale, who had been sitting in silent shock since _Past the Point of No Return_ had completely overwhelmed him, hadn't really noticed. 

The angel takes his body language for stubbornness. He clears his throat. "Getting back to the matter at hand, I guess I will just carve this pumpkin by myself, then, and it's going to be fun."

"It's not fun," Crowley moans, eyes shut and pinching the bridge of his nose as if the angel's giving him a headache.

"Not with that attitude, it's not," Aziraphale retorts, now spreading newsprint across the counter.

Crowley rakes a hand through his flame-red coif, leaving it disheveled, and groans, exasperated. "Angel, I just wanted to spend a relaxing afternoon with you. Why do you insist on making everything so tedious?"

Aziraphale pauses in smoothing out the paper and looks up at him, annoyed. "_Crowley_, as hard as it is to believe, I did actually enjoy some of our time together at the Dowlings. And I happen to know that you liked the Halloween parties." He turns to shrug off his coat, and sets it aside.

Crowley's frown turns up imperceptibly. He had enjoyed some of it. Working side by side for the better part of six years with the angel he loved did make him happy, despite the plan's potential risks, and suffering through the aspects of American culture that were part and parcel of the job. He wants to admit it, but he has to stand his ground. He has a reputation to maintain. 

"I don't know why you'd think that," he grumbles.

Aziraphale gives him a sidelong look as he pulls out his cufflinks and starts rolling up his sleeves. Crowley is just inches away from giving in, he can tell. He just needs a little nudge. Perhaps a light stroke of the ego?

"Oh my dear, but you were so in your element, weren't you? Telling Warlock those wonderful spooky stories, and playing pranks to scare his obnoxious little friends when they got too wild from the sugar." The angel is practically purring now, shameless. "I loved watching you work like that. I grew those pumpkins especially for you, you know. And Warlock always liked your carvings the best." 

Aziraphale thinks he sees Crowley's eyes turn a little more pleased, a hint of smugness on his mouth. He might as well pile on, while he's at it. "Not to mention how terrifyingly attractive you were... Now where do you keep your cutlery?" He opens a likely drawer. It has no knives.

Crowley, blushing now, reaches over him to the knife block, pulls out a long, serrated blade and hands it to the angel. Aziraphale beams at him.

"Thank you." He sizes up the pumpkin in front of him. "Now, how did we get these started? I can scarcely remember."

Crowley leans against the counter, his chin on his palm. If nothing else, he thinks, this could be hilariously entertaining. He watches as Aziraphale aims the knife clumsily at the pumpkin, trying to figure out the optimal angle for cutting out the top. After watching him struggle for several minutes, the demon finally sighs and closes his hand around the angel's.

"Come on, angel, just let me."

"No, no," Aziraphale says, trying to elbow the demon out of his way. "You didn't even want to do this with me."

"I also don't want you making a mess of my kitchen or losing a finger." He holds out his hand. "Give me the knife."

"Don't be ridiculous. I've used a sword before, for goodness' sake, I am more than proficient with a blade. You know full well I am quite used to handling larger than this."

Crowley's gold eyes spark with mischief. "Mmm. You flatter me."

While Aziraphale stands gaping at his innuendo, the demon takes the opportunity the prize the knife handle from his grip. Blade in hand, he swaggers off to a cupboard and returns wearing a slick black apron. Aziraphale rolls his eyes and tuts.

"Good lord, Crowley, you look like a coroner."

"Thanks," the demon replies with a toothy grin, and unceremoniously stabs the knife through the top of the pumpkin. 

The angel sighs and shakes his head. "Honestly, dear, I don't think this is going to require your theatrics."

Crowley puts his hands on his hips. "You come here completely unequipped to do this, and you want to tell me what this is going to require?"

"I am sure I can figure it out," Aziraphale huffs, and reaches for the knife where the demon has jammed it. 

Crowley throws out an arm and stops him. "Angel, the only thing that could make this worse is for it to take as long as it will take for you to figure it out." He sticks out his chest a little, "And like you said, Warlock always liked mine best."

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. "But you don't like it. You said."

“No, but as you pointed out, I am actually good at it.”

Aziraphale reflects that he should perhaps feel a little guilty for pushing Crowley so far as to do the work himself, but while it wasn’t really his intention, there surely isn’t any harm in letting him get on with it. Besides, the demon taking such decisive control of the situation makes him feel other things, to be honest. It reminds him of Crowley swaggering past him (while he was lodged in Madame Tracy), with a _leave it to me_. He reaches out and traces a finger along Crowley’s smug-set jaw.

“You’re good at a lot of things.” He says, stepping closer, and places a gentle kiss on the demon’s lips. “And so good to me,” he murmurs, still close to his mouth.

Crowley closes his eyes and smiles, knowing he’d been had for the millionth time but not caring. Still, he is definitely in danger of being distracted at this point. He jams his hands in his pockets. “Angel,” he hums in warning, “Do you want this pumpkin carved or not?”

Aziraphale grins bashfully, and takes a step back. “Why don’t I make myself useful and get us some wine, hmm?”

“That would certainly make this more enjoyable,” Crowley says, as he turns and starts to saw at the pumpkin.

Aziraphale slips away to fetch a bottle, smiling. He knows that Crowley is going to enjoy this anyway, he just needs to appear not to. He’ll let him keep the pretense. Warlock’s excitement over the proceedings had been the perfect cover for a demon who was sentimental enough to like such things, but thought himself too cool to show it. The angel is perfectly content with being to blame this time.

As he finishes cutting a neat circle around the top of the pumpkin and is levering it out, Crowley remembers how he’d thought the idea of carving vegetables for a party to be ludicrous that first year. It is still ludicrous, of course, but once he'd realised how good he was at it, he began to look forward to it. But he isn’t going to let Aziraphale know that.

The angel returns with a bottle of the aptly named Velvet Glove and busies himself opening it. He had originally expected it would be ghastly based on its South Australian provenance, but found it quite pleasantly lush after Crowley’s insistence he try it the first time. When he moves to pull some appropriate glasses from the rack, he looks over at the demon, who is working quickly now. He pauses, stemware in hand, to admire the artist at work. Crowley has the tip of his tongue between his lips in concentration, and he absentmindedly pushes his forelock out of the way as he leans over the counter. Aziraphale watches his hands and wonders at the skill of those long slender fingers, thinks about how nice they feel laced between his own. Suddenly he startles, realizing he's gawking and remembers he was supposed to be pouring the wine. He does so, generously, and slides a glass near enough for Crowley to reach it.

“Well, if you don’t intend on letting me help you, that’s my part done then. Unless of course you trust me with the storytelling. Something spooky for the occasion?” He has a book about here somewhere, he thinks, it would be just the thing. He heads off to find it.

Crowley raises an eyebrow as he digs at the inside of the pumpkin. “None of your stories are scary. And you spent too much time with those Americans, you don’t even know how to celebrate properly. You’ve never even pulled any Samhain pranks!” he calls out as Aziraphale walks away.

Aziraphale turns from the slim bookcase Crowley has allowed him to stock in the flat. (He’s been staying over here when they aren’t residing in his apartments above the shop, and he’d be damned if he will live anywhere without a few volumes stashed away. However, Crowley _is already damned_ and determined not to mangle his careful feng shui, so the angel had been negotiated down to an abbreviated collection.)

“Tsk. That’s all you know. I have done, and quite a good one, I think," Aziraphale boasts.

Crowley raises the other brow. He pauses as he pulls out strings of pumpkin guts. “Oh?”

“Yes. Well, it was rather a long time ago, but I was pretty pleased with it, I must say.”

Crowley looks doubtful. “Alright then, you tell me about your Samhain prank, and I’ll finish this for you.” He takes a drink as the angel reappears in the kitchen, and smiles as the notes of plum and vanilla open up on his palate. It’s his favourite from that winery, though he also has a soft spot for another one they do. He may or may not have been the one to suggest the winemaker to call it Blue-eyed Boy...

A little crestfallen he won't be reading the book, Aziraphale sets it down, and leans against the counter next to it. Then he winces. He hasn't thought about that night in several centuries and now that the memory floods back, he regrets bringing it up. He feels obligated though, with Crowley now dutifully disemboweling a pumpkin at his request. Of course there's no reason to tell the whole story, he doesn't have to tell it all. 

“Oh well I suppose I could. I mean it’s not spooky to us of course, it loses its magic a bit when you know how the trick is pulled off.” he says, trying to make it sound unappetizing.

“Still- _you_ getting into the spirit of Samhain- this I have to hear about.”

Aziraphale sighs. "Okay then... well, I was around Connacht at the time, you know, in the west of Ireland. I was there influencing St. Fursey- a very interesting lad, if a bit given to dramatics..." he trails off, remembering that whole thing. "_Anyway_, so it so happened I was there in late October and you know that old superstition about the _thinning of the veil_ and all that- so silly that's persisted really- but humans start ramping up their attempts at contacting _the other side_ then, as I am sure your lot knows too."

"Mmmmm, yeah," Crowley agrees. "I still feel sorry for those bastards who end up getting answered by Hastur."

"Quite. Well, of course those messages end up our way, too. I suppose it depends on the moral propensity of the human in question."

Crowley's brows raise in consideration of this hypothesis, but he makes no comment, so Aziraphale continues.

"Anyway, it just so happened that as I was passing through a small village, some poor girl was attempting the ritual at a relative's grave, asking the spirits for help."

The angel looks down into his wineglass. Skimming human pain was something absolutely necessary as an angel, otherwise one would be overwhelmed, but sometimes impressions would stick with you. There'd been something so compelling about that girl, he reflects- so willow-thin as she stood, shivering in the burial yard, her auburn curls shining in the candle-contrast, and the hollow anguish on her face at being cast away. He couldn't help himself.

"She'd been jilted, I gathered, by some wretched boy, and was just crying her poor eyes out. She asked the spirits for his attentions back, which of course was a terrible idea, given the lad’s inconstancy. Tsk. Normally I wouldn’t have gotten involved, but I didn’t have anything else on that night and I thought, well, if _your_ lot got involved, she’d be swept up in it when he got what was coming to him, and that was hardly fair.”

Crowley, tackling a tricky bit of cutting at that moment doesn’t look up from the pumpkin, but makes a sound of agreement. That sort of thing is the usual stock in trade for hell’s operations.

“Ahem. Well, she was so distraught I couldn’t help but interfere,” he explains, “So I go to her in the guise of a spirit. Oh, well, you should have seen her shock, I don’t think she expected her spell to work.”

“They never do.”

“Mmmm. So then I soothed her as best I can, _there, there_ and all that, and I put her to sleep, with some pleasant dreams-“

Crowley eyes him, unimpressed. “This is hardly a devilish prank, angel.”

“Well, I’m hardly a devil,” Aziraphale retorts, “And I’m not finished yet. I wouldn’t have pulled the prank on her anyway, she was asking for help.”

Crowley, who might indiscriminately pull pranks on just about anyone, shrugs and gets back to carving.

“So I sought out the man- he wasn’t hard to find in such a small village- and I convinced him to follow me to the graveyard, where I’d left her sleeping-“

“How did you convince him to follow you?” Crowley interrupts.

“What? Oh, that’s not important to the story-“

Crowley laughs. “Used the old buxom young lass ruse, did you?”

“Crowley!” the angel admonishes, “Well… maybe… _anyway_-“

The demon snickers. “Are you sure this prank wasn’t on you?”

“Oh hush, you fiend. I know that particular trick isn’t my forte, but he bought it easily enough-“

“Had enough drink beforehand you mean.”

Aziraphale crosses his arms, ignoring him. “_He followed me_. So, I led him to the graveyard- cued the fog and the ominous owl hooting, you know, for effect.”

“A bit cliché, but yeah, okay.”

The angel rolls his eyes, but carries on. “And lo, I revealed to him my true identity-“

“What, a stuffy bookworm angel?”

Aziraphale glares over his wineglass and flicks an errant pumpkin seed at Crowley where it sticks to his apron. “Do you want this story or not?”

Crowley suppresses a laugh and tries to look contrite. “Sorry, I’m sorry- please continue.”

“Ahem. So then I reveal to him myself _as a spirit_, and showing him the girl, I insinuate that she’s died for love of him- which of course she hadn’t but he’s too shocked to notice.”

Crowley nods- nice touch. Maybe the creep will die too, of fright? The prank is definitely sounding more interesting now.

“Well, I say to him, that when she arrived in the hereafter she told us that he’d promised his heart and soul to her, so I’d come to collect it, since she had rights to it, even unto death. The poor boy had turned so white at this point, and when I invited him to join her in death he was trembling so terribly I thought he was going to run away, right then! But no! Instead, he has the gall to renounce her, says he never betrothed her, et cetera. So I tell him that I’m a spirit for God’s sake, I know bloody well he’s lying, and that if he stays in this village, I’ll make sure he makes good on his pledge, and seeing as the veil between the worlds is thinnest now, I’m not wasting any time.”

Crowley looks up from the pumpkin in surprise at the angel, who is pausing to take a sip of shiraz. Aziraphale really could be a right bastard when he set his mind to it. It was his favourite thing about him, if the demon was being honest. He has an urge to crush the angel's mouth with an unholy amount of kisses, but he wants to know what happens next.

Aziraphale continues, unaware that his lips have been narrowly spared. “’See how she lies there so still,’ I say to him, ‘And beautiful, waiting for her beloved beyond the grave.’ Well, as you can imagine, at this point he’s widdled himself and I’m trying not to laugh.”

Crowley snorts as he pushes free a chunk of pumpkin. He’d seen plenty of men lose their bravado when it came time to pay their due, and it was hilarious when the stakes were much lower than they supposed.

“Anyway, I say to him then, that if he’d rather live, he’d need to make a full confession to the village in writing, begging her pardon for the wrong he’d done her, then he’d leave the village and never come back.”

Crowley looks up again in appreciation at Aziraphale who is now gazing off in the distance, tapping his chin in recollection.

“Of course I also convinced him to leave her a tidy sum, in recompense. It was the least he could do to appease her spirit.”

Crowley leans forward, rapt now, the knife hovering above the pumpkin. “What did he think she’d need with it in the afterlife?”

Aziraphale laughs. “I don’t know, but he never asked.”

The demon grins as he goes back to his work. “So then what happened?”

“Well, I woke her up of course, from a rather pleasant dream, where she discovered the letter and the money.” He looks deeply into his wineglass then, knowing he should end the story there. “I never saw her again,” he lies.

Crowley’s eyes widen and he gives a slow nod of appreciation. “Well I am pleasantly surprised, angel. You were right, actually, that wasn’t a bad little prank.”

Crowley, for whom Samhain pranks had really only ever consisted of drinking the offerings left out for the spirits before the revelers could get to them, and hiding things to confuse people with hangovers the next day, is actually fairly impressed. But it won’t do to let the angel get too big a head about it. He takes a swig of his wine and decides that he definitely loves him a little more for it, though.

Aziraphale toys with his pinky ring and takes a long drink of shiraz until Crowley looks away again. Of course he had seen the girl once more, just to ensure she was taken care of, but he certainly doesn't want to talk about it. He still feels silly about the whole thing. The girl had proven herself, ironically, to be a powerful witch indeed, and had ultimately ended up with a husband who knew her worth (and also, very wisely not to get on her bad side). When Aziraphale had gone back to that village on Samhain ten years later to check on her, (in his normal form, which was a stranger to her) they'd welcomed him to their celebration. The girl had offered a divination to him, as a guest in her home. Paring an apple, she'd handed the unbroken peel to him, instructing him to toss it over his shoulder. 

"See your fortune," she'd said, eyes fire-lit, as he threw it, "it reveals the first letter of your true love's name."

He'd laughed merrily at the thought- humans made up such silly games. But his laughter had stopped cold when he'd turned and swept his gaze down. Even now he could see that peel in his mind's eye: lace-like edges still wet with juice, soaking into the clotted dirt of the floor, _curled into a perfect C_. Suddenly unnerved, his stomach flipping, he'd beaten a hasty retreat. 

So it was, ironically, a spooky story after all, _to him_. He isn't anxious anymore, of course, about his love having been revealed, with that cat fully out of the bag to both of them at this point- but he doesn't want to admit to Crowley, let alone himself, how spooked he'd been at the girl's divination. He knew it would seem silly to the demon, Crowley would laugh at the embarrassment on the surface of the tale. But of course it wasn't knowing that he was in love that shook him (he knew already), nor some humans knowing that he was in love, but rather the fear of falling because of heaven's discovery of it. That fear was still too present for him to shake, to joke about. It had worn a very deep groove into in his heart over the centuries, when his love was, by definition, also his hereditary enemy- and one of the fallen, himself. He _definitely_ isn't brave enough yet to talk to Crowley regarding the details of _that._

He looks back up and over at the demon, feeling dicomfited. He's long considered himself the stronger of the two, but considering which one of them has already survived his greatest fear, he knows that isn't strictly true. Sometimes he is still scared, knowing he has something to lose. He sighs. Despite his recent departure from a pricipality's expected behaviour, he has somehow retained his grace, but he wonders if that is fair. Wonders if Crowley thinks it’s fair. He shakes off the thought, and finishes his wine in one gulp. He will never know anyway, of course, and he’ll hold Crowley in his own small measure of grace until the very end, if he has to. For now, though, he’ll be content to hold him in his arms. He looks again at the demon, his demon, who is at present very un-hellishly carving a pumpkin for him, a pathetic excuse for an angel. It's ineffable.

Crowley is now chewing his lip in concentration. He needs this to be perfect. He might complain about how puerile all of this Halloween bunk is, but he'd do anything for Aziraphale. Except maybe put this vile stuff in his coffee. That's still well past the obligations of love. He saws at the pumpkin in silence for a few more minutes, before standing back and surveying the finished product critically. Nice to know he still has the touch, he thinks. Deeming it good, he wipes his hands on a towel, pulls off the apron, and lights the now jack-o-lantern with a snap of his fingers. 

"There you go, angel," he says, turning it to face Aziraphale, "One carved pumpkin in exchange for your story."

The angel grins a million watt smile. Despite Crowley's reticence he's definitely not half-arsed it. Carved into the pumpkin is an undulating serpent motif, glowing with the flickering light inside.

"Oh dear, it's absolutely lovely!"

"Yeah, yeah," Crowley shrugs, but is blushing again as he starts to clear up the pumpkin seed spattered newsprint, "Whatever. As long as you insist on such nonsense, at least, you know, get it right."

The angel beams. "Well, I may have to every year, now. It's perfect!"

Crowley rolls his eyes, though internally he is preening at the compliment. He might already be wondering what he'll do next year. "Hmph," he snorts. "You never even liked this season."

"I like that it suits you, dear," the angel says, blue eyes sparkling with more than the candle light.

Crowley sighs. He'd carve a dozen more pumpkins for that look, and he knows it. What is a fool in love to do?

"What are you in the mood for now?" Aziraphale asks.

"To get more comfortable," Crowley suggests, lifting the jack-o-lantern. He carries it carefully down the hall to the, den and sets it on the coffee table. Aziraphale, after pausing to refill their glasses, shuffles after him with the book tucked under his arm. He joins Crowley who was already sprawled on the couch, and the demon slides over to press a long kiss into his cheek. The angel hums contentedly and closes his eyes as a feeling of warmth washes over him.

Crowley nuzzles into his neck for a moment, but then notices the book on his lap, and picks it up to inspect it.

"What's this? Oh, I know this. Miss Wollstonecraft's thing, won that wager with it." He says. He recalls _Frankenstein_ is a little cringe-worthy to read from a demon’s perspective, but it had led to Mel Brooks' parody, which he had thought was excellent.

Aziraphale tentatively opens one eye, then the other. He is surprised, perhaps, that Crowley knows about _The Modern Prometheus_, but given its many allusions to Milton's fallen angel, and the company Miss Wollstonecraft kept during the summer of its writing, he supposes there had to have been some demonic influence there.

"I thought I might read it, in the spirit of the occasion,” he explains. “Aloud, if you'd like me to?"

Crowley, who loves it when Aziraphale reads to him, but still isn't going to admit to it, sighs heavily. He hands the book to the angel, slides down the sofa and makes himself a pillow of Aziraphale's thigh. "Yes, yes, go on then."

**Author's Note:**

> The prompts for this were Halloween through the ages, pumpkin carving, cuddling & snuggling, and fluff- I hope that I delivered, Cabin13cosplayer!  
I was freaking out, sharp knives and cuddling, how am I supposed to write that? And then I realized Brits don't carve pumpkins anyway and most of the ones I know scoff at pumpkin anything, and Crowley's position on all of this became clear to me. The angel/demon bickering banter is my fave thing to write and that idea afforded me plenty of it. Sorry for the innuendo, hope it wasn't too much in the midst of the fluff, but I kept it mostly clean. Also sorry for the angst, but it IS spooky season, and without something to resolve (in this case, feelings) this story was in danger of being fluff without plot. LOL

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] (Just like a ghost) You've been haunting my dreams](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27223837) by [Djapchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djapchan/pseuds/Djapchan)


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